The Republic of Wine Read Free

grime, the non-corporeal essence of wrinkles. For the moment, the special investigator forgot all about the girl in the cab. Forgot the lips like cotton waste. Some time later, he would tense visibly at the sight of a woman holding his business card, sort of like gazing at mountain scenery through a heavy mist. Son of a bitch!
    â€˜Lived long enough, you son of a bitch?’ The gatekeeper, basin in hand, stood there cursing and kicking the ground. Ding Gou’er quickly realized that he was the target of the curses. After shaking some of the water out of his hair and mopping off his neck, he spit out a gob of saliva, blinked several times, and tried to focus on the gatekeeper’s face. He saw a pair of coal-black, shady-looking, dull eyes of different sizes, plus a bulbous nose, bright red like a hawthorn, and a set of obstinate teeth behind dark, discolored lips. Hot flashes wove in and out of his brain, slithering through its runnels. Flames of anger rose in him, as if an internal match had been struck. White-hot embers singed his brain, like cinders in an oven, like lightning bolts. His skull was transparent; waves of courage crashed onto the beach of his chest.
    The gatekeeper’s black hair, coarse as a dog’s bristly fur, stood up straight. No doubt about it, the sight of Ding Gou’er had scared the living hell out of him. Ding Gou’er could see the man’s nose hairs, arching upward like swallowtails. An evil, black swallow must be hiding in his head, where it has built a nest, laid its eggs, and raised its hatchlings. Taking aim at the swallow, he pulled the trigger. Pulled the trigger. The trigger.
    Pow
-
pow
-
pow
-.’
    Three crisp gunshots shattered the stillness at the gate to the Mount Luo Coal Mine, silenced the big brown dog, and snagged the attention of the farmers. Drivers jumped out of their cabs, needles pricked the donkey’s lips; a moment of frozen indecision, then everyone swarmed to the spot. At ten thirty-five in the morning, the Mount Luo Coal Mine gatekeeper crumpled to the ground before the sounds had even died out. He lay there twitching, holding his head in his hands.
    Ding Gou’er, chalky white pistol in his hand, a smile on his lips, stood ramrod stiff, sort of like a pagoda pine. Wisps of green smoke from the muzzle of his pistol dissipated after rising above his head.
    People crowded round the metal fence, dumbstruck. Time stood still, until someone shouted shrilly:
    â€˜Help, murder -! Old Lü the gatekeeper’s been shot dead!’
    Ding Gou’er. Pagoda pine. Dark green, nearly black.
    â€˜The old dog was an evil bastard.’
    â€˜See if you can sell him to the Gourmet Section of the Culinary Academy.’
    â€˜The old dog’s too tough.’
    â€˜The Gourmet Section only wants tender little boys, not stale goods like him.’
    â€˜Then take him to the zoo to feed to the wolves.’
    Ding Gou’er flipped the pistol in the air, where it spun in the sunlight like a silvery mirror. He caught it in his hand and showed it to the people crowding round the gate. It was a splendid little weapon, with the exquisite lines of a fine revolver. He laughed.
    â€˜Friends,’ he said, ‘don’t be alarmed. It’s a toy gun, it isn’t real’
    He pushed the release button and the barrel flipped open; he took out a dark red plastic disk and showed it around. A little paper exploding cap lay between each hole in the disk. ‘When you pull the trigger,’ he said, ‘the disk rotates, the hammer hits the cap, and
-pow! 
 It’s a toy, good enough to be used as a stage prop, but something you can buy at any department store.’ He reinserted the disk, snapped the barrel back into place, and pulled the trigger.
    Pow-!
    â€˜Like so,’ he said, a salesman making his pitch. ‘If you still don’t believe me, look here.’ He aimed the pistol at his own sleeve and pulled the